


i don't want you like a best friend (only bought this dress so you could take it off)

by safeandsound13



Series: we knew we'd get there someday [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Smut, Taylor Swift inspired, Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, dress by taylor swift, how many ppl develop murderous tendencies if i say 'sexy times', lifelong dream to write a fic about this song, love that cracker we all know, s6 spec, shaw lives yeah, yeah.....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-12-25 12:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke and Bellamy go on a covert mission on the new planet and end up getting a littletooup close and personal.





	i don't want you like a best friend (only bought this dress so you could take it off)

**Author's Note:**

> phew. the LENGTHS i had to go through to make this make sense, before realizing this is a s6 spec fic and not canon and nobody gives a fuck about how realistic it is, considering we all just collectively flicking our bean to just having bellamy and clarke breathe the same air. so here it is, air: breathed. tropes: delivered. mastercard: priceless. did i do it right?
> 
> surprise! this is the first fic in a five to 'we'll see how it goes' day countdown to [REDACTED]. if youre wondering why i hate myself this much well: this was both a great way to a) fill some prompts b) make myself finish some fics that i started six years ago but more concise 3) distract myself from the impending doom that'll come with another season of the 666, free of charge. as we say in the netherlands 'two flies with one clap' translation for the 8 billion minus like 18 million people 'two birds w one stone'
> 
> song in title is dress by do i even have to say it at this point like 90% of my song inspo is from this talented cracker

Russell, the new possible treat to their existence, invited them — her specifically — to come to one of their parties. A friendly gesture. There'll be food, and music, people having a good time, dancing, entertainment, lots of  _fun_. It sounds like a trap, everything inside of her screams it's a fucking trap, it has to be trap.

"It's not a trap," he tells her at the look on her face, holier-than-thou grin plastered on his face. Now she  _knows_  it's a trap.

Instead of telling him as much, she insists on consulting her friends first. Not that they are her friends, not really, not anymore, but she is trying to be the bigger person these days and needs more time to consider the pros and cons of going along with this obvious trap.

Clarke doesn't want to do it at first. Remembering Monty's words to be better, to do better — going in with the wrong intentions and assuming the worst of these people wasn't the best start — she didn't want to make the same mistakes they did last time, or the time before that. She's still not sure they're not just the problem themselves.

They argue, and leave her out of the discussion, like she isn't the whole reason they were even invited to start with. She knows better than to speak up these days, knows she'll just figure everything out on her own, if necessary. Sometimes it's just easier to bite her tongue and go along with them because it gives her smoother access to certain information.

Who will go? Bellamy, the obvious choice, because he is their unofficial leader, is quick on his feet and can sweet-talk himself out of an uncomfortable situation without blinking an eye. They find a pilot in Shaw or Emori, and in case they needed backup of the technological kind during the mission. Murphy says if Emori goes, he'll go. Echo,  _obviously_ , because she's used to spying. Only Raven opts out, says her brace will draw too much unwanted attention. Even Miller gets mentioned, as a last resort, in case it gets violent. Clarke's name barely even comes up, like she's just a silly little afterthought, like  _oh, she's still here_.

Well, she's the afterthought that saved their asses a million and one times before, and she thinks fuck it. She's definitely going. If only because they don't want her to. She can't trust them, they've made that painfully aware. She'll hide on the ship if she has to.

Except, by the end of their tedious back-and-forth banter, right before they whole group is about to disperse, Bellamy turns to her, eyebrows raised, "Clarke, you're coming, right?" Like that was just a given, decided on from the start, like he didn't just ignore her existence for half an hour straight.

She freezes by the door, turning back on her heels to face him completely, and these days, that means facing all of them. Raven huffs out loud, indignant as always, but before she can say anything, Clarke taps her fingers on the frame of the door absently, squaring her shoulders as she answers with a firm, defiant, "Yes."

He nods, once, resolute, his eyes lingering on her face for just a moment before he turns back to the quiet discussion he was having with Murphy and Emori. She continues to walk out the door, not even bothering to glance over at what she's sure are judgmental looks on both Raven and Echo's faces. It's getting a little old.

They hate her. It's fine. Welcome to the club. She finds it hard to care, especially when nowadays, who doesn't?

An exploratory mission, that's all. Assess the way of life down there, observe the people, discover what makes them tick, identify their weaknesses just in case. Maybe find out what their evil master plan was. If they even had one. She can handle it. Handle them.

Once Zeke flies them down to the ground, one of Russell's assistants comes over with racks and boxes and more racks of ' _theme appropriate_ ' clothing. Clarke doesn't know where he conjured the dresses from — different colors and fabrics and shapes, all the most prettiest things she's ever laid eyes on, surely too beautiful to be made by hand, making her own fingers twitch to reimagine them on paper — but the second she her gaze catches on the blue, slithed garment with a v-shaped neckline, she's sold.

It's not like she cares much about what she looks like, or clothing for that matter — what, when this is the second planet she's been on in her now centuries-spanning life since the first one just would  _not_  stop burning down, been busy trying to avoid being eradicated while eradicating others — but this one, it's special. She can tell.

Earlier, right before they got onto the ship, she and Bellamy had a fight. They're always fighting now, she thinks. Not like they used to, not to make each other better, push each other to be more. No. They — whatever they were — it shattered when he went up to space and she stayed down on earth, and now the pieces no longer fit together.

He caught her saying goodbye to Madi, promising her she'd be back soon even though they both knew that wasn't a given these days. Just before she passed through the doors to join the others, he caught her arm. She looked down at his hand with surprise, breath hitching in the back of her throat — he hadn't touched her since his hands were around her neck, since  _this time you die, not me_  — and he quickly retracted it like he'd been burned.

He cleared his throat, eyes darting around awkwardly. "Are you sure you want to come?"

"What do you mean am I sure?" Clarke asked, skeptical. He can't be backtracking now, he's had the whole night to think about it, he looked away when she walked in during breakfast, and he saw her at lunch, too, briefly, before retiring to his own table, and he still wants to do this now. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"No," he sighed, aggravated, maybe with himself, or her, she's not entirely sure. "I just mean — are you okay leaving Madi behind for the whole night?"

"Like you said. It's just one night," she repeated, robotically, glancing over at her daughter for just a second. Is he trying to use her against her now? Trying to make her doubt herself? "She'll be fine."

His jaw clenched, and somehow him standing at arm's length is still too close these days. "Clarke, I'm not —"

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder roughly, grinding her teeth together as she fixes her gaze straight ahead. She didn't want to look at him and see a stranger staring back. "Just say you don't want me to come."

"I do," Bellamy snapped, loud, way too loud, defensive, immediately cursing under his own breath at his sudden outburst. Madi looked up from where she was standing with Abby, a crease between her brows. Clarke waved at her, to ease her worries, forcing a smile on her face. "I do," he said then, lower, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fuck. Why do you have to twist everything I say?"

"I'm not," she bit back venomously, fingernails digging into her palms sharply. It's silent, the tension growing even thicker between them as her words lingered in the air, and it was hard to not give in, smooth it over, forgive him just like that. Clarke ran a hand through her hair, forced her voice to be more neutral, less heated, softer, a peace offering. "You ever consider we're just  _looking_  for problems now? These people could be both good and bad, like us. They could have nothing to hide."

"Yeah, maybe," Bellamy retorted, scrubbing a hand over his scruff, and there's still a hostile tone to his voice, but it's less heated, more like it's habitual. "Or they could want to hang us from their ceiling and drain our bone marrow. Or they could want to eat us for dinner.  _Maybe_  they want us dead just because."

He had a point.

"Yeah," she sighed, weary, closing her eyes for a second to clear the fog from her brain. Fighting with him was exhausting, like it goes against her nature. "Better to know for sure."

He opened his mouth to say something, causing her to lift her chin to look at him. Conflict was written all over his face as he let out a small frustrated puff of air, like he couldn't quite find the right words to explain himself. "Clarke, I didn't mean that I wanted you to stay. I just thought you'd like to. You don't have to do this all by yourself anymore."

For some reason, this pissed her off even more. She huffed, unimpressed. "Why? Because you don't need me anymore?"

His nostrils flared, his fingers curling into fists. "You're going to have to stop holding that against me."

"I will when you and your friends stop holding things that happened 125 years ago against me," she spat back in return vindictively, satisfaction blooming in her chest as his jaw tightened, not saying anything. The corners of her mouth turned up in an amused, furious smile, because for some reason she felt like laughing. It was fucking hilarious, this, them, if you thought about it. "Whatever. Let's just get on the ship and do the damn mission. Then we don't have to be in the same room anymore."

His eyes narrowed, his voice low. "The best thing news I've heard all day."

She brushed past him, ignoring the tight feeling in her chest, slipping inside of the transport ship as soon as the doors slid open. He'd looked pissed the whole way down, barely even looked at her, and didn't even so much as glance at her after they touched the ground, not even when she put on the dress, or when she informed the group she was going to speak to their new possible evil enemy, not that they cared. He didn't even react. No offer to come with her, not even a  _be careful, Clarke_. It's clear he no longer cares what happens to her.

Now she's in the middle of a ballroom, Russell's clammy hand in hers, the other one low on her back as they dance to slow violin music. She's barely listening to a word he's saying, her gaze catching Bellamy's from across the room. He's standing beside Echo, who seems to be grilling a poor Sanctum woman. A flute of champagne is pressed to his lips as he takes a sip, his eyes dark as his adam's apple bobs up and down slowly.

She's tired of this game. She's so fucking tired of it. Not saying what she wants to say, when she wants to. Treading around him like any wrong move might break them in half like porcelain. She feels sick to her stomach.

"Excuse me," Clarke blurts out mid-sentence, more to be polite than anything, dropping her hand as she takes a step back. She sends Russell an apologetic look, tearing her eyes away from Bellamy, then hastily darts away, to anywhere but here. Every time she's in the same room as him, no matter how big, she feels like she's suffocating. She catches his eye again, right before she pushes through the door, but she makes sure to quickly look away.

This whole place is like a maze and she can't find the exit, so she ends up in the bathroom. She runs her wrists under a stream of cold water by the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. She'd hoped this earth would be different, that they could start over fresh. But starting over fresh was never in the cards for her, huh? Not when all she can see when she looks at him is what they were, what they could be, a flash of memories, of him brushing back her damp hair, of her putting her palm over her chest, all the days she imagined what it would've been like to be up there with him, how badly she'd wanted to take back  _Bellamy, don't wait_  —

The door swings open all of a sudden, clattering loudly against the wall before it falls shut. It's Bellamy, his chest heaving up and down heavily as he stares at her in the mirror, his eyes black, gaze heavy.

She shuts off the water, taking her time to dry her hands on one of the towels hanging from the wall before turning around and leaning back against the counter, like her heart isn't pounding so loudly in ears she can barely make out her own thoughts. She doesn't give him the satisfaction of speaking, just looks at him expectantly.

Finally, after a long moment of staring at each other, of asking herself what the hell they're doing, she breaks anyway, "If it wasn't clear yet — this one's occupied."

He doesn't say anything, doesn't even roll his eyes or let out a huff of humoured air. Instead, he closes the distance between them with steady, even strides, stopping when they're face to face. She swallows tightly, refusing to look away from him, fingers wrapping around the edge of the counter tightly. A red haze of anger overtakes her. She hates him, she might actually hate him.

Bellamy's eyes flick down to her lips, his gaze following the direction downwards, down her neck, lingering on her chest, grazing past her waist, lower. She thinks she can actually feel his eyes on her, leaving a trail of fire in it's place, making her mouth dry. When his eyes find his way back to her face, it's like she's completely bare for him already, his gaze taking what it needs from her. She feels like an exposed nerve, vulnerable, like any little touch might send her over the edge, a gnawing ache in lower belly that she recognizes as need. She needs something, too. From him.

He's so close, their chests are touching with each heavy breath she takes, and he tilts his head further down, nosing her cheek before a hand comes up to palm her face, heat shocking her skin before firing into her blood. She takes in a sharp, shaky breath, tongue darting out to wet her cracked lips. Her eyes search his, her heartbeat quickening at what stares back at her, becoming a drum inside her skull, her bones, between her thighs.

(A small, ugly part of her had hoped that when he'd see her in this dress, he would finally realize that they're not  _just_ friends. That they never were. It was a desperately pathetic attempt, completely insane, but looking at him now, maybe it actually worked. Maybe she could have this one thing, for once.)

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, just to feel something, but his thumb moves to tug it lose, crossing some imaginary boundary, and she can make out a soft, frustrated sound in the back of his throat.

All of a sudden, like it's magnetism, they both fly forwards, mouths meeting in a frenzy. She doesn't know if she takes the first step, or if he pulls her closer, but they're kissing, angrily, greedily. He takes her mouth, hand locking around the back of her neck, plundering it with a bold thrust of his tongue. They both want all while simultaneously wanting to give all, carelessly pushing and pulling, all teeth and tongue, hands everywhere.

Her arms come up around his neck, his scent — that fucking ridiculous blend of smoky, dark woods and something so distinctly him — clouding her mind. Clarke has half a brain to worry about Echo, about what the fuck she is doing, with him out of all people, where she's doing it, how bad of a person she is, but then one of his hands palms her breast through the fabric of her dress, and she's molding against him from chest to thigh, stretching and rubbing against him, desperate to release some of the tension between her thigh, desperate to create any sort of friction.

"Lock the door," she breathes, gasping softly as his hands slide underneath her thighs, lifting her into the counter in one effortless move, his mouth latched onto her neck like it's his one purpose in life. He's leaving marks, she's sure, replacing his old, faded ones, and it makes her grind against him harder.

Bellamy pushes her, or maybe she pulls him closer, the force of it making her back meet the glass mirror behind her with a satisfying jolt. He tries to slant his mouth back over hers, but she leans her head back, crown of her head touching the mirror. "Lock the door," she croaks out again, feeling the need to repeat herself. She's still mad, but she's on the verge of losing all control, feeling him harden against her thigh because of her. It sends heat straight through her body, sharpening the ache in between her legs, hardening her nipples. She doesn't care if it's purely physical, if he just wants her because she  _looks_ good, she's beyond caring about anything else but to get him inside of her.

He finally obeys, but is back at her side within ten seconds, this time without his jacket. Bellamy looks absolutely wrecked — his hair a mess on top of his head, his pupils fat, his freshly shaved jaw clenched tightly — before he starts nipping her jaw, her throat. Swearing and multi-tasking, he fumbles with the skirt of her dress, trying to ruck it up to her waist, and then trying to desperately get her panties off. He's too hasty, too impatient, and before she knows it his big hands seize the fabric, pulling, ripping the fabric.

All Clarke can do is whimper, her back arching off the cool glass behind her. Hurriedly, her shaking hands reach out to make quick work of undoing the buttons on his shirt, and while he shrugs that off, she works on his belt, too. Then he cups her breasts, not even bothering with a zipper, hands instead sliding up to move down the straps of her dress down her arms manually. He growls at the sight, low, cursing something under his breath as he finds her nipples with his thumb, rolling them, pinching them tight between his fingers, smirking slightly at the sounds she's making, at the way she shudders.

She digs her nails into the back of his shoulders to have something to hold on to as soon as his mouth, still wet and hot from hers, finds her breast, lashing it with his tongue, while she twists against him frantically, her breath hot in his ear, whimpering out his name.

Finally regaining some of her fucking mind, she drops one of her hands to the buttons at the front of his pants, freeing his cock from the confines of those pants. (Pants that, by the way, made his ass look so fucking fantastic that earlier she almost considered forgiving him for everything on the spot.)

Her lashes dip, fingers wrapping around him — he's so hard already, of course he is — squeezing and stroking and saying shit she shouldn't say, like how long she'd wanted to do this, how many times she'd thought about this, what she wanted to do to him, what she wanted him to do to her.

Bellamy shoves his hands back under her skirt, his dark eyes unfocused and glazed over with lust. She had to be embarrassingly wet at this point. Her gaze met his the second he finally touched her, the wrecked groan falling from his lips telling her she was right. His thumb presses against her clit, making her huff out a strained breath, and her tongue sweeps over her lips, as if savoring the taste of him.

She really wants him to use his hands, his mouth,  _everything_  — she wants it so badly — but right now she doesn't know how much time they have, how much longer they have before one of them snaps back into reality and realizes what they're doing. Most of all, she wants him to feel him inside of her, wants to feel what that's like, wants to feel full, so she spreads her legs further, using her knees to try and draw him in closer.

Their mouths meet again, and she wraps her fingers back around his cock, and then all of a sudden he's inside her, and they have to stop for a second, both adjusting, the weight of this all hitting her all at once, because this is fucking Bellamy, and he's  _inside_  her. Then he angles, deep, pushing hard, her eyes practically rolling back in her head. Clarke lifts her hips slightly, making him sink even deeper into her slick heat as they move together, roughly, allowing each other no room to take it slow. It's quick, and dirty, just taking from each other what they can, what they need. No time to pretend it's anything it's not.

She's making obscene noises, moaning and gasping and whimpering, she's sure, and at one point Bellamy snakes one up to clamp it over her mouth, so all she can do is grunt against his palm as he hits all her favorite spots.

Her body grows tense, wrapped tight and wet around him, release beginning to build, thrust for thrust, and he seems to be right there with her, their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling as they stare into each other's eyes.

His calloused hand disappears back in between the two of them, thumb pressing against her clit in circular movements. She cries out against his palm a moment later, gasping and flinching involuntarily as small, rolling squeezes of orgasms linger, causing her body to clench around him still, even as he comes.

He removes his hand from her mouth, and completely spent, drops his forehead to her shoulder, body trembling slightly on top of hers. He noses at her jaw, then her ear, her cheek, and she can't help but reach up and run a hand through his hair, brushing a few damp locks away from his face. Their skin hot, slick from sweat.

Still deep within her, he drags his face back, looking at her. She can see the torment in his eyes, the frustration, the anger. The tension is suddenly, and not so subtly, weighing on them again, and Clarke couldn't look away if she wanted to. It hurts, when he pulls out, and not because she's sore. Her whole chest constricts with guilt, shame,  _more_  anger. She feels so incredibly dirty.

"This was wrong," she tells him, scratchy, sliding off the counter to pull her pants back up her legs. Then she remembers he ripped them, and focuses on fixing her skirt instead. She's trying her hardest not to think about the fact he —  _Bellamy_  — came inside of her, but it's hard when her thighs are sticky and every small moves has her ache between her legs, a stark reminder of whatever the fuck just transpired between the two of them.

"Yeah," Bellamy says, short, avoiding eye-contact as he busies himself with refastening his belt, his whole posture stiff. His back is mostly turned towards her, his muscles moving under his brown skin.

"Are you actually angry at  _me_ right now?" She bites, yanking the straps of her dress back up. Her eyes brim with tears involuntarily, and she tells herself it's hatred.

"I'm not angry, Clarke," he replies calmly, but there's a dark edge to his voice, a tick in his jaw, his movements rougher than necessary as he buttons up his shirt.

He's such a fucking dick. "God," she seethes, absolutely furious as she bends down to snatch her underwear of the floor. He can't even be honest with her anymore. "Okay. You know what?  _Fine_. Whatever."

She discards the fabric into the nearest trash can, and he has the nerve, the audacity to sound annoyed with her. "It's not whatever, Clarke."

Clarke scoffs, striding closer to the door, not even bothering to apologize when her shoulder knocks into his on the way there. "We'll just ignore it like we do with everything else."

Her hand freezes on the lock as he speaks, so quiet, she could've pretended not to have heard him. "We used to talk about everything, you and me."

_You and me_. She huffs, sourly, looking at him over her shoulder. "Well, that ended the day you left."

"I wouldn't have left you —" He starts, then breaks himself off, cursing lowly under his breath. What? If he had a choice? If he knew the outcome? His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he's shaking his head slightly to himself, movement jerky. Finally, he speaks, like he's reassuring himself, "Maybe it was supposed to happen like that, the way it did — you know, maybe you were supposed to find Madi —"

It's a cop-out. A fucking cop-out. Madi had nothing to do with it. It's cheap, to throw her back into her face like this. To pretend like she was some huge cosmic interference that undid all of their wrongs and mistakes, that everything they did was right in the end. It has nothing to do with what they did to each other, what she made him do to her, what he let her do to him.

Clarke turns towards him completely now, blood flowing hotly through her veins. She stares at him, hard, frustrated. "Maybe. But you were never supposed to —"

She cuts herself off before she says something stupid, like  _fuck her_. Because it's more than that, isn't it? They're together, he loves her, he wants to be with her. She wasn't just a warm body to pass the time. He loves her. He loves her and it fucking hurts.

A beat passes between them, the air heavy. Then he scoffs, bitterly, a dangerous edge to his voice, "What, move on?"

Her voice shakes, but she can't back down, not now. She's already gone too far. "Not with her, no."

His chest heaves up and down erratically, his face falls. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Eventually, he settles on, "We thought you —  _I_  thought you were dead."

"I wasn't. I was back down on earth, by myself, wishing I was," she bites back, and she knows it's not fair to be mad at him about it, it wasn't his fault, it's irrational, pathetic, crazy, fucking crazy. "Wishing I could have sent someone else, wishing I could've been just a little bit faster, arrived just a little earlier. That I could've been with you." She swallows thickly, eyes darting away. "All of you."

"Clarke —" He starts, but she breaks him off.

"No," she cuts in, firmly, "Bellamy, just forget it." Her teeth grit together, and she blinks a few times trying to keep the tears at bay, her fingers wrapping back around the lock. "I won't tell your girlfriend about this and we can both just forget it happened, okay?"

It's what they're good at. Forgiving and forgetting. Not so much the first part anymore, but definitely the second.

She turns the lock, her fingers trembling. "She's not my girlfriend." She freezes. "Not anymore."

Clarke swallows, but she doesn't turn. She can't turn. She can barely feel her legs. She's afraid that if she moves, she might collapse.

"When I found out about the radio calls I realized that what we had — I didn't just make it up in my head," he continues, so soft and gentle, her mouth dries up. "That at some point, you needed me as much as I needed you." Her breathing quickens as she feels him move closer, his voice deep and rough, making her shiver lightly. "I tried to play it off because it was clear you didn't want to be around me anymore."

"I didn't know  _how_  to be around you," she defends herself, tentatively dropping her hand. She feels him hover behind her, warmth radiating off his frame. "I still don't."

His fingertips ghost over the bare patch of ivory skin in between her shoulder blades, sending little sparks down her spine. "Trying to play something like that off was torture." Her breath hitches in the back of her throat as his fingers slide up, brushing her hair away from her ear so he can press a light, wet kiss beneath it. "But seeing you in this dress today — that was actually fucking killing me."

Her heart slams in her chest murderously, threatening to rip her right open as she turns around to face him, the sheer intensity of his stare having her stumble back against the door, handle digging uncomfortably into her lower back, and all she can manage to croak out is, "You really broke up with her?"

"It was mostly a mutual decision," he comments, casually, so she guesses Echo was the one to end it. The corners of his mouth turn up self-deprecatingly. "I guess I can try and hide how I feel about you, but I can't hide the way I look at you."

Clarke takes a step closer, tentative. "We have a lot to talk about."

She knows this one of the last private moments they'll have in a while, they both do. He nods, distracted, just humming in agreement as his fingers trail up her arm, toying with the strap of her dress.

He reaches behind her to twist the lock back in place, murmuring against her throat, "Later."

**Author's Note:**

> hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or here if you want to yell at me, prompt me or cry or summ about 'mAyBe YoU hAvEn'T nOtIcEd, cLaRkE, bUt I dOn'T nEeD yOu aNyMoRe'.


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